Jeff MacKingsley was quiet on the drive back to the office, and Angelo Ortiz knew better than to intrude. It was clear to Angelo that his boss was deeply troubled, and he was sure he knew why. Celia Nolan seemed to be on the verge of a total breakdown.
The forensic group was waiting for them when they arrived. “We’ve got nice prints for you, Jeff,” Dennis, the fingerprint expert from the lab, announced with great satisfaction. “A nice index finger from the doorbell, and a thumbprint from the car.”
“Were there any in Zach’s apartment?” Jeff asked.
“Lots and lots and lots of Zach’s. Nobody else. I understand there were some moving men in there. They sure did turn that place upside down. Funny—they must have had on gloves the whole time.”
“You mean funny as in peculiar?” Jeff confirmed.
“You know I do, Boss. What moving man have you ever met who wears gloves?”
“Dennis, I have two sets of fingerprints I want you to check for me,” Jeff said. He hesitated, then added firmly, “And check them against the ones you got off Zach’s car and doorbell.”
Inwardly, Jeff was having a struggle. If the fingerprints Clyde had kept of Liza Barton matched the ones on the picture that had been in the barn, it was conclusive proof that Liza Barton was Celia Nolan. If those fingerprints matched the ones Dennis had lifted from Zach Willet’s car and doorbell, it was conclusive proof that Celia had been at the crime scene where Zach Willet had lost his life.
The juvenile prints are illegally retained evidence, Jeff reminded himself, which means I could never use it in court. But it doesn’t matter, he told himself stubbornly. I do not believe that Celia Nolan had anything to do with Zach Willet’s death.
Dennis got back to him in half an hour. “You’ve got yourself a match, Prosecutor,” he said. “The three sets of prints belong to the same person.”
“Thanks, Dennis.”
Jeff sat quietly for almost twenty minutes, twirling a pencil as he weighed the pros and cons of the decision he was struggling to make. Then, with a decisive snap, he broke the pencil, sending splinters across his desk.
He reached for his phone, and without going through Anna, dialed information to get the number of Benjamin Fletcher, Attorney-at-Law.